


Eyes of the Night

by Miss_Femm



Category: Wait Until Dark (1967)
Genre: Character displaying mild symptoms of post-traumatic stress, Gen, Hurt and comfort, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Smoking, Surrogate mother/daughter relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 05:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14731112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Femm/pseuds/Miss_Femm
Summary: Susy Hendrix had stared death in the face twice and after all of that, it was hard to be afraid of just about anything else that could possibly happen. (Introspective one-shot, takes place almost a month after the events of the film.)





	Eyes of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Wait Until Dark is one of my favorite films: it's suspenseful and has a great cast, but the aspect of the movie I love most is Susy Hendrix. I really admire and relate to this character, and I like how she's an example of courage as being brave in spite of fear. The movie is a bit overlooked these days, which is a shame, so it doesn't shock me that there's no fic for it-- well, at least until now, I suppose.
> 
> Anyway, my highest hopes are that everyone is in character and that the tense stays consistent.

Susy Hendrix is sure that if she spends another early morning exhausted, sleepless, and sweat-covered because of an awful nightmare, she’ll go insane. Yet here she is almost a month after “the incident,” curled up in bed, heart beating violently in her chest, as though she’d spent the last several minutes running for her life.

Sam seems motionless beside her, though she can feel his breath, even and soft, disturbing her hair. She knows he hasn’t been sleeping well either: late at night, she hears him pacing the rooms or the rustle of a magazine page half-heartedly turned. At the very least, he’s sleeping right now—his light snoring betrays that. 

Susy tries to focus on his breathing, hoping it will lull her back into unconsciousness as it once did on sleepless nights after they were first married, but patience never having been one of her virtues, she gives up. The anxiety from the recurring dream agitates her limbs, makes her crave some kind of movement. As slowly as possible so she won’t wake him, she rolls out of bed, reaches for her robe hanging on the end of it, then quietly makes her way to the living area.

Susy goes to the coat rack, following the same familiar path there, though she’s shocked a bit when her slippered feet make contact with the new carpet, which she is still getting used to. They’d thrown away the old carpet as soon as their home was no longer a crime scene since getting the gasoline smell out would have been impossible. (Susy likes to remark to the neighbors that if anything good comes out of your home being invaded by drug-smugglers, it gives you a nifty excuse to renovate.)

When she gets to Sam’s winter coat hanging there, she rummages through the pockets until her hands find a battered box of cigarettes. Then she locates the match box in the other pocket and takes one out. It takes two strikes for it to light and then slowly, anxious not to burn her fingertips, she lights it. Knowing the tip has caught, she waves out the match, then takes herself out the front door and into the corridor.

The cold of the corridor rushes upon Susy the moment she leaves the apartment. Leaning her back against the wall, Susy lifts the cigarette to her lips and inhales. She coughs the moment the smoke hits her lungs, then wonders if she’ll be able to finish—she’s never been much of a smoker. The next drag is slower; she lets her body get used to the irritation just so she can reap the effects of the nicotine.

How silly that a little nightmare can reduce me to this, she thinks.

She isn’t trembling or paranoid, but the sensations from the dream linger and she doesn’t like it. It replays. Her mind’s eye imagines the apartment all blue and black like city streets at dusk, complete with all their sofas, tables, lamps, and chairs in their usual places, with their usual textures. The room smells strongly of coffee and tobacco. Sometimes photo-chemicals too. Or gasoline.

The three men are always there, always in black, always large. When Mike or Carlino make their appearances, she imagines them to look like gangsters in old movies, the kind that would consort with James Cagney or Edward G. Robinson, cigarettes clenched between their teeth and fists shoved into trench coat pockets. But Mr. Roat never has a face, not even the ghoulish one she imagined for him. The only parts of him which achieve any kind of clarity are that hiss of a voice and his cellophaned fingers.

Often, she’s reliving parts of what happened. Cold cellophane ghosting across her cheek, the knife piercing the wall beside her ear, Roat’s lips and teeth wet on her neck, his blood running sickeningly hot between her fingers. Sometimes the dreams end with fire everywhere and she isn’t sure if she’s reliving the car crash or not.

The fact that she’s still having nightmares about these things embarrasses Susy, makes her feel childish. Of course, she’s been told this is to be expected, that what happened to her was traumatic and bad dreams are normal, sometimes persisting for even over a month afterward. Even Sam assured her he still had awful dreams about certain things that had happened during the Korean War, friends he’d watched die over a decade ago. And to be fair to herself, her own reactions were growing milder: the first nightmare was followed by an overwhelming sense of nausea that sent her running to the bathroom, a far cry from the strong but bearable unease she’s experiencing now.

Suddenly, Susy hears someone coming down the stairs, footfall soft but discernible in the silence.

“Susy?”

It’s Gloria. Not thinking, she rubs the cigarette out on the wall, as though she were a child being caught by a parent. Then, she feels ashamed, though whether it’s because she’s likely added another ugly spot on this dilapidated building or because Gloria’s found her like this she isn’t sure.

“I don’t care if you’re smoking, Susy,” says Gloria, her voice echoing a little in the empty hall as she walks closer.

“Oh, I shouldn’t be anyway,” says Susy. “The last thing I need is another bad habit. Why are you up so late, pumpkin?”

“I don’t know. Couldn’t sleep—like you, I guess.”

Gloria’s voice is normal and lacks the sense that she’s walking on eggshells, afraid that Susy will fall to pieces, an attribute Susy finds common amongst those she interacts with these days. She reaches out to put her hand on Gloria’s shoulder, squeezing it gently when she finds her mark.

“Well, at least I’m in good company,” she says, smiling. Gloria chuckles, so Susy imagines she might be smiling too.

The two are quiet for a minute, listening to some of the traffic outside until Gloria breaks the silence.

“You know, Susy, all everyone does is talk about how brave you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t let any of what happened with those men get to you.”

Susy shakes her head. To allow anyone to believe that would be as bad as lying. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, you still go out alone—you know, to blind school back and forth like always.” A brief pause. “And you’re okay standing out here alone at night. I’ll bet anyone else would’ve become a shut-in or something, too scared to even step outside.”

Susy had never thought about it like that before. For a little while, she hadn’t wanted to be alone (nor had Sam wanted to leave her alone), but once they’d gotten their front door replaced (and had the strongest latch they could find installed onto it), Susy insisted Sam go back to his studio to work and she continued with her schooling. Normality was not easily regained, but Susy saw little use of cloistering herself up, terrified for her life at every moment. After all, she’d been able to get back into a car after the accident, hadn’t she?

And strangely, deep down, though she had no desire to repeat the experience, Susy’s not entirely sorry it happened. She’d never told anyone that, probably because they’d think she’s crazy, but it’s true nonetheless. At the time, the men’s charade to make her doubt Sam and herself, and even worse, Roat’s final physical assault, had been a waking nightmare. Yet fear for her life aside, she’d been determined to stop the men, angry that they had tried to manipulate her, her own moral indignation kicking into high gear—and perhaps the desire to prove to herself that she wasn’t a victim anymore and never would be again. And now, she didn’t see herself as helpless, a damsel-in-distress in need of a guardian.

“Thank you for telling me, Gloria,” says Susy before giving the girl a small hug. “Now, we’d better go try to sleep again. We’ve both got school bright and early.”

“Alright Susy. Good night.” Then Gloria goes back upstairs, her steps fading as she ascends.

When she returns to bed, Sam is half-awake, his voice groggy. He asks if something’s wrong, but Susy tells him not to worry and go back to sleep. Sam complies without question, wrapping an arm around her when she crawls back into bed. The sound of his breathing lulls her into easy unconsciousness.

Susy Hendrix had stared death in the face twice and after all of that, it was hard to be afraid of just about anything else that could possibly happen.


End file.
